


Space to breathe in

by PrimalScream



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, M/M, loss of limb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 14:57:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8628727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrimalScream/pseuds/PrimalScream
Summary: Pre S4. Howell has to take more of John's leg. James gets his head out of his ass.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote fic without sex. I'm as confused as you are.
> 
> Rachel, thank you for the editing. When I sent it to you the first time, it was just over 2k. Now it's 5. LOL Yeah, you kick my ass better than anyone I know and you're brilliant to boot. Thank you for telling me this idea didn't suck and that I wouldn't end up swinging from the noose for writing it. I'm holding you to that, BTW. Thank you for all of your amazing suggestions.

James stands at the foot of the table where John is lying. Howell had already bandaged John's wound by the time James had made it back to the hut. He can’t take his eyes off of the blood on the floor underneath John’s body. “Will he survive?”

Howell looks at him with hollow eyes. “The infection was fairly serious, I believe I’ve removed all the necessary tissue in order to--”

“Will he survive?” James grits the question out through clenched teeth.

Howell throws the bloody rag in his hand across the room before turning to face James, “I don’t know. I have no way of knowing if the infection entered his bloodstream. I told him weeks ago to get off that goddamn peg and he didn’t listen, therefore, I don’t know.” Howell all but shouts the last bit at him and James can’t quite blame the man.

James knows he’s been a right bastard for the last several days. When John’s fever had spiked a day and a half ago, he had watched as John had become increasingly pale and weak until he’d collapsed against James on their way back from a meeting with Jack and Teach. He’d been delirious with fever and pain and James had panicked. In the moment when Howell had told him that John was going to lose more of his leg and possibly his life, James’s entire being had rebelled. He couldn’t fathom losing yet another person who had come to mean more to him than his own life. James had hovered over Howell’s shoulder, firing one question after another while Howell had prepared John for surgery. Howell had finally had enough and told James that if he didn’t get out until Howell sent for him, he’d be taking James’s tongue along with more of John’s leg. James had relented. On the way out he’d told Howell to do whatever it took to save John’s life.

Without a second thought he’d turned the responsibility for the war he started over to Jack, Anne, and Teach. He refuses to even sail his own ship, he’s given that honor to Jack for the time being. James is drawn out of thought by Howell’s voice. “There are plants on this island that can help with the infection. I’ll consult with the healers here. He’s going to need round the clock care, I’m sure that--”

“I’ll do it.” James cuts him off before Howell can further the thought. Howell is bustling around the room, gathering supplies in a pile and preparing John’s body to be moved back to his own hut. Howell stops and turns to face James, "Captain, I don’t think you realize the nature of what’s going to be required.” Howell makes sure to turn his back on the others in the room to give them some semblance of privacy.

James lifts one shoulder, his eyes tracing the contours of John’s face, he curls his hands into fists to keep from reaching for him. “Bathing, dressing changes, feeding, medicating, dealing with bodily functions, am I leaving anything out?”

Howell looks over his shoulder once more before stepping closer, voice lowered he says, “Only how it will look.”

James pulls himself to his full height, “I don’t give a shit how it will look.”

The look he gives Howell closes the matter. He’s fully aware there’s another person on this island who could—and would—give John the same level of care that he himself will. But with a single mindedness he hasn’t experienced in a long time, he knows that he won’t be giving up John’s care—or John—without a fight, and he intends to start making his stand on that matter this very second.

James tell Howell that he’ll carry John back to his hut. Howell intercedes and says that will cause too much jostling and unnecessary pain, instead, he calls four men in to move John. It’s better if they move him on a litter. It’s only the thought of causing John more pain that gets James to back off. Howell gives the four big men instruction and then goes back to gathering cloth and salve while James is left to oversee moving John.

James realizes that he’s hovering. Every furtive glance in his direction from the four men responsible for moving John only cements what Howell had been implying. He knows that his treatment and behavior toward John is proclaiming that John is special—special to James specifically—more so than a Quartermaster to a Captain. The only thought that makes him hesitate is that perhaps this isn’t what John would want. But he can’t find it in himself to care at this exact moment. Until John regains consciousness and can decide for himself, James will be making all of the final decisions regarding his care.

Watching Howell remove another inflamed and bloody section of John’s leg had only brought home to James what he’d been shoving to the back of his mind for months. It had forced him to admit that John wasn’t just another member of his crew. He wasn’t just a trusted friend and Quartermaster. He wasn’t just another soldier in this war. He was forced to face up to the fact that John _is_ special to him.

Lately, as he had been watching John start to slip away from him and toward someone else, he’d begun to let go, thinking it was for the best. But now, he had no intention of stepping aside, no intention of letting John slip through his fingers. He intended to finish what John had started, what John had asked for in all but words. Early on, after they’d turned the British back from the Maroon Island, John had begun to seek him out in the evening with a bottle of rum. He’d asked question after question about James’s life in London and serving in the Royal Navy. John had been highly amused at the thought of James following someone else’s orders. And while James had talked and told story after story he’d still held himself slightly apart. He’d kept himself, and his feelings, in check even as he’d shared stories no one else knew.

In return James learned how John came to be in the boys home and on the ship in which they’d found him. He told James tales that had him laughing so hard he’d ended up gasping for breath. He had suddenly understood why the men had taken to John so thoroughly once they’d given him a chance. The distance between them, both figuratively and literally, had started to lessen as they had begun to sit shoulder to shoulder telling tales. John’s body and eyes had all but begged for James to reach out physically. His gaze would constantly stray to James’s lips, his hand would land lightly on James’s thigh. Even though there was invitation written in every line of John’s body, James had held John at arms length and John had noticed. James had watched defeat settle heavy on John’s shoulders as he rose to leave at the end of each evening.

The rejection hadn’t been because James didn’t want him. Nothing could be further from the truth. James wanted him so much he ached with it. The need he felt for John wasn’t just physical. He wanted it all. He wanted to fold John into his arms and spirit them both away from all the death and destruction that was surely coming their way. But there was too much left to do, too many things standing in their way, and something deep inside James knew that he wouldn’t make it out the other side, and he wouldn’t—couldn’t—take John down with him.

Eventually their evenings together started to become shorter. James was fully aware of why and he didn’t fight it. James knew his days were numbered but that didn’t have to be so for John. James knew there was a chance that John could find a way to leave this life, that someone could help him on that journey, someone who could give John the things that James never could. John began sharing his evenings and his stories with someone else. Someone who welcomed him with open arms and an open heart. The first time he’d seen them together James had to force back the strong urge to stake a claim. He’d been halfway to where they were sitting when he realized what he was doing. Mid-step he turned and headed in the opposite direction to clear his head, to try and find his sanity again.

He continued to watch them that evening and each one thereafter. He pushed the jealously down, told himself this was the best for both himself, and for John. He’d convinced himself that she could offer John things that James never could, namely a future that didn’t involve the sea. Her face wouldn’t be a constant reminder of all that he’d lost. He’d allowed himself to wallow in self pity. He’d allowed himself to forget the things he’d seen in John’s eyes, to forget the obvious way John sought him out day after day with hope still lingering on his face. He’d allowed his own insecurities and self hatred to let John walk away. He’d allowed himself to forget what John was to him and he to John.

But now that’s over, James intends to fight for him. If there’s any part of John that still wants him, James will find it and he will grab it with both hands and hold on. Whatever the future may hold, he isn’t going to just walk away this time. He may still lose, but it won’t be for lack of trying. He intends to make it as clear as possible to John that James wants him.

Once John is settled and they’ve been left alone, James begins to remove the rest of John’s clothes. He gently removes John’s rings and necklace, putting them in his own pocket for safekeeping. He’s careful with each garment as it comes free, folding each piece as he sets them in a pile close to the door for laundering. John isn’t going to need them anytime soon. For now, James pulls a thin blanket over John’s body.

He frees John’s hair from it’s ties and brings John’s head over the edge of the cot so that his hair hangs down. He dips his hands into one of the bowls of water and wets John’s hair down from scalp to tip. He then lathers his hands with the soap that had been left for his own personal use. Carefully, James begins to comb his soapy fingers through the dark curls. The top layer of John‘s hair is coarse and thick, but the strands underneath—at the base of John’s skull—are soft and springy. The knots catch on his fingers, and James works slowly and gently through each one until he’s combed all them all free and his fingers slide from root to tip smoothly. Once John’s hair is free of soap, he wraps it up in a length of linen so that it will dry. He moves John back down the cot nestling his head gently into the pillow. Drawing the blanket down to John’s hips, he takes the chance to run his eyes over John’s torso. James can’t help but notice how well and truly fit John really is. His skin is mostly unmarked, hairless and smooth. The only exception are several small round scars on his right side. His thumb traces the puckered skin and he makes a note to ask John about them later.

His tiny, flat nipples, several shades darker than John’s natural coloring, draw his attention. Briefly he wonders if they’re sensitive and if he’ll ever get the chance to find out. James lays his hand gently against John’s sternum, let’s John’s breath lift his hand up and down, lets himself breathe with John to reassure himself that John is, at least for now, still alive.

He dips a short piece of linen into the water and then lathers the cloth to begin washing the dirt and sweat from John’s face. His skin is hot and damp, and the second James wipes a line of sweat away another immediately pops up in its place. James runs the cloth through John’s beard then down his neck before ringing it out and starting over again. Once John’s face is clean he repeats the entire process. Water, soap, wash, rinse. He pulls the cloth across John’s chest and abdomen half a dozen times before John’s skin is clean. James does the same with both of John’s arms and hands, using his own nails to meticulously clean the dirt from around John’s cuticles and under his nails. Carefully, he turns John onto his side. Using the same gentle, thorough strokes, James slowly washes John’s back. After lowering John back to the cot, James hears a throat clear quietly behind him.

“Captain, I have more dressings and the tea for his fever.” Howell stands at the entrance of John’s hut with a canvas bag stuffed with supplies in one hand and a porcelain pot in the other. “I’ll show you how to change the dressing. It needs to be changed every few hours to prevent further infection. You need to try to get some of this tea down him every hour.”

James nods for Howell to enter, not moving from his position next to John. Howell kneels down next to James and moves the blanket so that it is still covering John’s groin but leaving his left leg bare. Howell carefully unwraps the dressing on John’s leg. It’s the first time that James has gotten a good look at the injury in a long while. It’s red, ragged and swollen. John still has his kneecap but just barely. “Why isn’t it cauterized?” James nods toward the weeping open end of John’s leg.

“That would seal the infection in. We’ll apply this salve for the next several days. The shamen here have used this successfully on others who’ve suffered infection. Once the wound starts to close on its own, and there is no more drainage, we can seal it. Until then, closing it would be a death sentence.” James nods as Howell continues.

“Each time you change the dressing, first wash the wound gently, don’t use too much pressure.” James watches carefully as Howell gently runs a soapy cloth over the wound of John’s leg before rinsing it thoroughly. “After it’s been cleaned, you’ll need to apply a palm full of this to the wound and the surrounding area.” Howell rubs the thick substance over the open wound. John makes a hurt noise in his throat and his body shifts restlessly, trying to pull away from Howell. James leans his head close to John’s and speaks lowly into his ear as his fingers stroke over John’s forehead.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you.” John seems to settle and Howell finishes applying the salve. James moves closer to Howell once again as he takes long strips of cloth out of the sack by his side.

“You want to start at mid thigh. Wrap downward until you get to the wound and then cross down this side and come up the other side. Repeat the same pattern until there is only enough cloth left to tuck into the top.” James nods and watches Howell’s hands work efficiently until he’s tucking the end in. Howell then pulls a vial of opium out the bag, “A few drops in the tea. He’ll fight it once he’s conscious so I suggest you keep him asleep for the next four or five days. There is nothing better for a healing body than undisturbed, painless sleep.” Howell shows him by dosing the teapot on the small table next to them with four drops. He turns back to James to make sure he understands before continuing, “The tea contains a root that’s long been known to have healing properties. Try to get as much of it in him as possible.”

Howell gets to his feet and James follows. “I’ll have someone bring bedding around for you as I get the feeling you’ll not be leaving this hut for the foreseeable future.”

“What are his chances?” James clasps his hands behind his back to keep from ringing them in front of Howell like a nervous mother.

Howell sighs and swipes a hand over his face. “He’s young, relatively healthy, in good shape. He has better chances than you or I would but I won’t know more for a few days yet. I have to see how he responds.” James nods and Howell takes his leave.

James goes back to John and bathes the rest of him, washing the grime of war from his skin until there’s not a trace of dirt left behind. After he’s covered John with another blanket, he unwraps John’s hair and plaits it into a single braid to keep it from becoming knotted once again. Two men appear at the entry of the hut with bedding. After they leave, James lays out a pallet next to the cot John is resting on. He strips and washes himself before he beds down. He knows he needs to sleep to keep his own strength up so that he can nurse John through the worst of what’s coming, but every time he closes his eyes he sees John collapsing against him again, feels the same panic grip him that he’d felt then. His palms start to sweat and he has to sit up and check to make sure John is still breathing. That night he only sleeps in snatches. Each time he wakes up he frantically checks to make sure John is still with him.

For thirty-six hours, as John’s fever rages and the infection seems to intensify, James prays to a god he no longer believes in. He asks for mercy he doesn’t deserve, he pleads on John’s behalf. John is, underneath it all, a good man who was forced into circumstances beyond his control and he deserves to live. He deserves to be given a second chance. For three days John alternates between shivering as if he’s in the dead of winter and sweating so profusely that he’s as wet as if he were just emerging from the sea. He’s restless in sleep, calling out for James, for his mother, for Billy, once even screaming in agony while James was changing his dressing.

At one point his fever gets high enough that it causes a seizure. James screams for Howell, his manic voice echoing across the camp. He holds John’s head still to keep him from thrashing around and hitting his head on the rail of the cot. Once Howell gets there he keeps a tight grip on John’s upper thigh to keep him from causing further damage to his wound. All they can do is watch and wait for it to pass as John’s body convulses violently. If James has to turn away and wipe his eyes when it’s over, Howell pretends not to see. James and Howell pack John’s body in wet strips of cloth moistened in the sea to try and lower his core body temperature. Within a few hours the fever comes down marginally, but it continues to hang on at mid-grade. Howell tells him that it always gets worse before it gets better.

He spends long hours talking to John, telling him about Thomas and Miranda, about their life in London before it was ripped apart. He talks so much that he goes hoarse. When the words run out he just strokes John’s face, his arms, whispers things to him that he’d never thought he’d say again. He tells John that he’s there, that he’s not leaving, that John has to come back to him because he can’t do this without him, that he needs John the way he’s never needed anyone else. He tells John that he’s the only thing saving him from walking into the ocean and making it all disappear. When John still lies silent and motionless, James begins to beg and bargain. He promises things that he can’t ever hope to deliver. He figures he’ll deal with that later, all he wants right now is for John to open his eyes, to smile at him, even if it’s just the barely there tilt of his lips, James will take it. As a last ditch effort, he tells John that if he has begun to move on, James won’t stand in his way, that it’s John’s choice to make. Even though it will shred his soul apart, he’ll step back.

James is startled awake one night by John shouting his name. When James gets to his knees he sees John’s eyes are open. They’re feverish and glazed, unseeing. He’s caught in whatever nightmare woke him as he calls out for James to help him. He begs some nameless, faceless monster to _stop, don’t, please stop_. James’s fingers stroke along John’s face as he whispers, “I’m here, it’s just a dream. You’re safe now.”

John clutches at his shirt, “James?” He sounds almost lucid for a split second. James continues to softly whisper to him while stroking John’s face and neck. Finally, John starts to settle, his pulse slows under James’s fingers, his breath returns to normal. His face smooths out into a smile as his eyes focus briefly on James, almost as if he’s present for that single moment. He breathes James’s name so reverently it makes James want to weep. John falls back into a peaceful sleep almost immediately.

James hears the creak of wood as someone moves at the entryway of the hut. Without turning James knows instantly who it is. His jaw clenches and relaxes before he says, “I’ve got him.” He doesn’t turn toward the intrusion, just continues to watch John as he melts back into sleep. He wonders how much she saw, how much she heard of John’s outburst. He knows instinctively that she would have heard John’s raised voice, would have heard his anguished cries and been concerned. He knows she would have wanted to check on him. He hears the in-drawn breath as if she intends to speak. James holds out hope that she won’t. For several long tense moments James’s body is coiled tightly as if waiting for a fight to begin. James isn’t sure that any of his answers would be civil at this particular point in time and she doesn’t deserve his anger or his bitterness. Retreating footsteps allow him to dispel the breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding. Unable to sleep, James stays awake the rest of the night. He likes to think that he’s never been a cruel man. He knows he’s purposely denying her access to John out of pure possessive instinct. But he’s afraid that if he gives any leeway, he’ll lose it all.

John’s fever breaks mid-day. His skin cools off and his sleep is more peaceful. He now wakes on his own instead of from nightmares. The first time he comes awake, James’s name rolls off his tongue before his eyes are even fully open. James can’t deny the flushed feeling it sends through him. More lucid than he’s been in days, James is still the first person John calls for. James helps him sit up just slightly. He sits sideways on John’s cot, propping John against his own chest as he lets John sip at a cup of water. When he’s finished, John turns his head and nuzzles into James’s chest before falling back to sleep. James takes his first full breath in six days. The relief that washes over him is like a cool breeze off the ocean, cleansing and invigorating. John continues to get better with each passing day until he’s able to be more awake than asleep. Their crew and the Maroon people begin to filter through each day with well wishes and James starts meeting with the crews again.

A week and half after John becomes completely lucid, James is on his way back from one such meeting. When he steps over the threshold into John’s hut, he sees John sitting up and laughing. Madi is sitting next to him with John’s hand in hers. James stops dead, stands still for two beats and then about faces out the door. He can hear John calling him but he continues walking away and into the forest. The sick feeling in his stomach churns and turns over until he has to stop and put his head between his legs to take deep centering breaths. He sits on a downed tree trunk to clear his mind. He’d vowed to give John a choice and he must adhere to his own terms. He’s just so thankful John is alive, that he’s recovering. He thinks he can come to terms with John’s decision if he at least gets to have John by his side in this last fight. James knows better than anyone the draw of beauty and power, he understands why John was, and is, drawn to her. He can’t, and he won’t, begrudge John’s chance at happiness despite the way it tears at his own heart.

It takes him hours to calm the shaking of his hands and the erratic beat of his heart. Hours to steel his resolve, to push back what he’d allowed to the forefront for the last several weeks. He waits until dusk to make his way back to the hut, until he’s certain he won’t make a complete fool of himself. When he steps through the entryway this time John is asleep on his back, one arm slung across his abdomen, the other curled up by his head and James is struck by John’s beauty. James stands over him for long moments, memorizing the way his lashes lay against his cheek, how his lips are slightly parted and how his hair curls around his head. He’s desperate to reach out and run his fingers along John’s brow but he doesn’t dare. The touch would wake him and James needs to get away free and clear. He needs just a little more space and time before he’s confronted with the reality that he’d waited too long and had lost in the end.

He notices the crutch leaning against the end of the cot and surmises that Howell had been in at some point. It’s a good sign. It means Howell thinks that John is strong enough to start moving around on his own. John has made it no secret that he’s not pleased with the fact that James has to help him piss. James makes the decision to start gathering his belongings; it’s time for him to return to his own hut. He’s trying to be as quiet as possible and is almost across the threshold when John’s voice stops him cold.

“I swear if you walk out on me I will maim you with my crutch.” James turns to face him. John is sitting up, legs swung over the edge of the cot, blankets pooled around his his waist, torso naked and flushed with warmth of sleep, a fire in his eyes than James hasn’t seen in weeks. “First you push me away, and then you spend weeks glued to my side, nursing me back to health, growling at anyone who dares to come near me. Now you want walk away again? What the fuck is going on here, James?”

He contemplates playing stupid for half a second. Dropping his belongings to the floor, he settles in the chair next to John’s cot. “I wanted you to have a choice.”

John snorts incredulously. “Yet you didn’t want to stick around for me to voice it. Sneaking away while I’m asleep like a fucking thief.” James turns to apologize but John shakes his head, voice gone soft. “There is no choice, James. There could never be anyone but you.” John lowers his eyes, fingers plucking at the blanket.

Sliding from the chair, James hits his knees and crawls the short distance across the floor to kneel in front of John. He cups John’s cheek in his hand and John leans into him, John’s eyes are bright and clear, affection shining back at him. He presses a dry, chaste kiss to John’s lips. When he tries to pull back, John grabs his shirt in a tight fist and says, “I want a real kiss.”

With a smile James angles John’s head and brings their mouths together. It’s soft and light at first. James licks at the seam of John’s lips and John opens to him on a soft moan. John’s hand slides up to the back of James’s head, his fingers stroking over James’s scalp. James shivers at the soft touch. The kiss is sweet and gentle, their tongues touching softly, licking over one another until John has to pull back to breath. John scoots back and lays on his side, his back facing James, and pats the cot behind him. James removes his boots and climbs onto the cot. He pulls John close, tucks one arm under John’s head and the other over his waist. He buries his nose in the thick of John’s hair and inhales the scent of him.

“I didn’t growl.” James says almost petulantly.

“That’s not what I heard.” John’s jaw cracks on a yawn as he answers.

“You heard wrong.” James whispers the words into John’s neck. John’s only answer is a drowsy hum as he tangles their fingers together over his stomach. James presses his knuckles into the warm skin, feels himself syncing his own breath with John’s. Within seconds John’s body slumps back into James’s, his breathing deep and even as sleep takes him.

James decides then that when this is all over, he’s going to throw John over his shoulder and run as far inland as he can manage.


End file.
